


True beginnings

by hauntedpoem



Category: True Detective
Genre: Depression, Gen, Nihilism, Sadness, True Detective psychology, broship, general sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't take too long for Martin, "Call me Marty" Hart to realize that Rust isn't an extrovert and doesn't handle small talk well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Published: 02-23-2014, Updated: 02-23-2014

 

The blade slides with ease on the tired skin and soon, its edge cuts sharp through the rough hairs on his chin. He then washes with soapy water and rinses. It's when he decides that he can't take the freezing cold anymore when he notices someone behind him. Three days' scruff down the drain. He is starting anew, this cycle repeating itself and when the figure behind him approaches, he just knows he cannot get out of samsara.

The man is stocky and shows the tell-tale signs of being in the police service. He looks like one of those corruptibles, family man; he thinks he knows what he wants. Thinks he has it all figured out and plays the intimidation card to smother his childish curiosity. Rust doesn't blame him. He would have probably done the same if the circumstances were different. Unfortunately, they are not. He figures it out in time. The blond, pale blue eyed man with the constitution of a miniature bull is his partner. And he's rarely wrong in his assumptions.

"Martin Hart," he announces, and it's enough to look at the round shape of his head, at the perpetual frown and at the way his hands prop themselves on his thick, leather belt to know that Martin Hart doesn't take well to strangers. He never has.

And there's a slight nervousness that shows in his twitchy eyelid, barely masked by the no-nonsense look that he stapled on his face once he got the badge.

It's unnerving. And funny, Rustin thinks. He towels his chest in a fake motion of gentleness and without turning he looks Martin Hart straight in his blue American-boy eyes through the reflection in the mirror. It's real. The mirror shows the same quadriplegic reality that's ensconced in his dreams and for the first time in years, Rustin thinks that hope is a shrewd sentiment. One that he hasn't banished yet from his heart.

Hart. Heart." What's the difference?" he thinks.

A locker somewhere is slammed and their eyes make unwitting contact and stay focused for a distressing passage of time. Hurried steps echo and the noise becomes unbearable as a troop of coppers leave the locker room.

Rustin thinks it would be civil of him to turn and shake hands, but he's tired and weak at this time of day, besides he doesn't know anyone in this new town that he likes and the chances of him being liked in turn are dwindling by the hour.

Reluctantly, he turns and he knows he's vulnerable when Martin Hart, Louisiana copper, catches the towel for him and helps by drying dark chestnut tresses that fall into his eyes. He has to reckon… he's moved by the gesture and in his mind, the tragic and beautiful melody of something crooked and beautiful starts to play. Mellotron and invisible to other's ears, the memory of the sound dragging him down. It breaks and dissipates just so that his tired heart pumps earnestly in a stupid and futile will to live, in a desire to believe that maybe he shouldn't give up on humanity just yet.

Martin Hart looks like a patient man, despite Rustin's asshole attitude, or so does Rustin think when he sees a sort of impossible naïveté in the other's eyes. For a moment he feels apologetic and tries his best not to be so obvious about it. The hand that grabs his is warm, dry, hearty- "Hart. Heart.", he thinks- and the short fingers that try to encompass his are surprisingly comforting, like he does all this from the goodness of his heart and not because the job requires it.

"Rust Cohle", he murmurs in one breath, the eyes pained from the horrors of his soul, the face sad and terse. The other doesn't give up, yet, and Rust feels a pang of that forsaken hope creep into his eyes again, and he cringes when he realizes they're watery, about to cry. He stops himself in time feigning a violent cough.

"We're going to work together. You and me!", the other emphasizes the "you" as if trying to include him into something grand and relevant for once in Rust's life. He feels welcome, in a strange, unbecoming way and he wants to touch the man in front of him and check if he's real, because his kindness cannot be a lie, he tries to convince himself.

"Yes, nice to meet you.", he says and he means it.

Martin Hart might be an asshole but he treats him with respect. "That's because he doesn't know you", he thinks despairingly.

They work together well. They complement each other. The start of some sort of partnership with this man excites him but the excitement fades into the night, as usual, when inner demons come to taunt Rust in his sleep. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't dream, and when he finally falls asleep, is because he faints into his mattress.

-

It doesn't take too long for Martin, "Call me Marty" Hart to realize that Rust isn't an extrovert and doesn't handle small talk well. Everybody at the office behaves a bit too serious around him for some stupid reason, but Marty wants to get to know him because his instinct tells him that there's something special about this man. They call him "the taxman". He thinks it's funny and scary at the same time and is a bit revolted with their shameless hillbilly approach when Rust starts digressing about one of his philosophical theories that rarely seem to be used in a homicide department. Rust is interesting, compelling and he really, really wants to know everything about him, just like a kindergarten kid.

He likes Rust. He really likes him, but he knows that if he doesn't adapt to the Southern expectations of how detectives should be like, he's afraid that he'll never get a promotion, or worse, that they'll suspend him, because they can't just fire him.

One day after they close a case he just thinks him brilliant and is hurt when he doesn't answer with the same enthusiasm. He takes him for a drink but Rust doesn't do that anymore, apparently. He starts wondering, then. He talk about himself and Rust shuts up and pretends to listen… or maybe he really listens to him, To Marty it makes sense. He would like to make conversation but that's only frustrating for him. He might as well use Rust as therapy, although there's something dark and unresponsive in him that probably needs therapy more than he does.

-

Marty invites him to dinner and he talks about his wife and their two girls. He's proud, he loves them, Rust notices. He's also a greedy fucker that loves his family, beer, tits, sex and football. He's typical, he thinks for a moment but soon changes his mind. No, he's adaptable. He probably changed so much in the police force that he cannot comprehend not being like this. He suspects something about Marty's philandering ways but doesn't say anything about it. He isn't stupid. He cannot say it now, anyway. He has to refuse the diner, again.

He needs to get out of the bar and go home and masturbate. And fall asleep, because he needs to, and he doesn't want more alcohol. And he needs meds. He knows he does.

His demons are silent but odious. Everything's white in the room. He takes a shower and when he tries to bring himself to a decent climax he realizes he cannot think about nothing but that fucking dinner that he refused. It's the third time he does that.

He's only half hard when the phone starts ringing.

He goes to answer it anyway, tall and sinewy, leaving a sodden disarray behind him.

"Hello?" he knows it's Marty, reprimanding him once again.

"We have to meet at the section, right now. Something came up!" His voice is distressed but Rust feels excitement instead.

"I'll be there in 5", he answers. "In 5", he finds himself repeating again but what Marty doesn't know is that now Rust sports a fully fledged hard-on and starts to stroke it. He puts the phone down, goes back into the shower and he finally finds release.

When they meet, Marty's face is a mask and he's silent.

"New case. We have to check the area", he's offering no detail, mostly because he's frustrated himself. His dinner ruined and all. Rust doesn't feel sorry, he realizes and they hop in the police car together, Marty at the wheel, as usual.

It's gruesome, Marty thinks. Some kind of ritual, satanic, probably. Rust takes notes and draws the body. Nothing surprises Marty anymore. He revels in the other's dedication and supplies with comments full of praise whenever the inspector says something unkind about Rust.

"You don't choose your parents and you don't choose your partner, who you're working with". That's his philosophy. It might not be Kant, Descartes, Russel or Sartre, but he loves Rust, his life is in his hands, like Maggie likes to say.

He understands him and when they check the area thoroughly and Rust's theories catch meaning, he wants to believe everything he says, wants to rely on it, because it's all they have.

Later that day, he drops him off in front of his house, but curiosity gets the best out of him and when he enters the house, he starts to understand. He feels the sadness, the oppression, the emptiness and he can also feel his demons. But he ignores them. He brings the beer anyway- somehow it's in the car. When he re-enters, Rust is half clothed on the mattress, a mockery of the Da Vinci's man posture. He's thinking. Next to him, the crime books and piles of notes.

There's something wrong with him, he just knows.

"I can't sleep" Rust offers instead.

"How come?" And he starts making himself comfortable. His shirt suffocates him.

"I just… dream. It's exhausting. It makes me want to crush my head on the wall… but I'm not into stuff like that".

He thinks he doesn't understand. Marty doesn't want to and doesn't like the fact that he sees through him some times. He never wanted to be insightful. He's just a copper who likes football and tits and a laugh with the boys… but that's so hard right now. Being simple is unwanted here. He's obliged to think and feel and be philosophical about it. He watches Rust in his boxers curled on that ivory mattress and he's going mad. He wants to bring him to life, somehow.

Marty's going to give up, he hopes in vain.

"Dum spiro spero", Rust thinks to himself and it doesn't make him feel less depressed. He pours the beer and starts reading instead.

Marty just watches him. He has no need to drink. It won't numb him anyway. All that he feels is a sort of incurable attraction, pain and delight as Rust props himself on a pillow and ruffles through the pages.

Rust knows what he's feeling, because it's the same with him. The blue bright eyes pierce his as they approach. An accusation? Rust doesn't have the energy to bite back.

The mattress is soft when Marty lands on it. He's preoccupied and yet so unafraid. They lie together as Rust offers his unused arm for support. With the other he flips a page and continues reading.

But they both stare into nothingness, as sadness creeps in with the evening.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dum spiro spero means "While I breathe, I hope" in Latin.


End file.
